Chapter 4

Most of
the thirty or so little tables covered by
red cloths with a white design stood ranged at
right angles to the deep brown wainscoting of the
underground hall. Bronze chandeliers with many
globes depended from the low, slightly vaulted
ceiling, and the fresco paintings ran flat and
dull all round the walls without windows,
representing scenes of the chase and of outdoor
revelry in medieval costumes. Varlets in green
jerkins brandished hunting knives and raised on
high tankards of foaming beer.

"Unless I
am
very much mistaken, you are the man who would know
the inside of this confounded affair," said the
robust Ossipon, leaning over, his elbows far out
on the table and his feet tucked back completely
under his chair. His eyes stared with wild
eagerness.

An upright
semi-grand piano near
the door, flanked by two palms in pots, executed
suddenly all by itself a valse tune with
aggressive virtuosity. The din it raised was
deafening. When it ceased, as abruptly as it had
started, the bespectacled, dingy little man who
faced Ossipon behind a heavy glass mug full of
beer emitted calmly what had the sound of a
general proposition.

"In principle
what one
of us may or may not know as to any given fact
can't be a matter for inquiry to the others."

With his
big
florid face held between his hands he continued to
stare hard, while the dingy little man in
spectacles coolly took a drink of beer and stood
the glass mug back on the table. His flat, large
ears departed widely from the sides of his skull,
which looked frail enough for Ossipon to crush
between thumb and forefinger; the dome of the
forehead seemed to rest on the rim of the
spectacles; the flat cheeks, of a greasy,
unhealthy complexion, were merely smudged by the
miserable poverty of a thin dark whisker. The
lamentable inferiority of the whole physique was
made ludicrous by the supremely self-confident
bearing of the individual. His speech was curt,
and he had a particularly impressive manner of
keeping silent.

Ossipon spoke
again from
between his hands in a mutter. "Have you been out
much today?"

"Oh!
Nothing,"
said Ossipon, gazing earnestly and
quivering inwardly with the desire to find out
something, but obviously intimidated by the little
man's overwhelming air of unconcern. When talking
with this comrade--which happened but
rarely--the big Ossipon suffered from a sense of moral and
even physical insignificance. However, he
ventured another question. "Did you walk down
here?"

"No; omnibus,"
the little man answered,
readily enough. He lived far away in Islington,
in a small house down a shabby street, littered
with straw and dirty paper, where out of school
hours a troop of assorted children ran and
squabbled with a shrill, joyless, rowdy clamour.
His single back room, remarkable for having an
extremely large cupboard, he rented furnished from
two elderly spinsters, dressmakers in a humble way
with a clientele of servant girls mostly. He had
a heavy padlock put on the cupboard, but otherwise
he was a model lodger, giving no trouble, and
requiring practically no attendance. His oddities
were that he insisted on being present when his
room was being swept, and that when he went out he
locked his door, and took the key away with him.

Ossipon had
a vision of these round
black-rimmed spectacles progressing along the
streets on the top of an omnibus, their
self-confident glitter falling here and there on
the walls of houses or lowered upon the heads of
the unconscious stream of people on the pavements.
The ghost of a sickly smile altered the set of
Ossipon's thick lips at the thought of the walls
nodding, of people running for life at the sight
of those spectacles. If they had only known!
What a panic! He murmured interrogatively: "Been
sitting long here?"

"An hour
or more,"
answered the other, negligently, and took a pull
at the dark beer. All his movements--the way he
grasped the mug, the act of drinking, the way he
set the heavy glass down and folded his arms--had
a firmness, an assured precision which made the
big and muscular Ossipon, leaning forward with
staring eyes and protruding lips, look the picture
of eager indecision.

"An hour,"
he said.
"Then it may be you haven't heard yet the news
I've heard just now--in the street. Have you?"

The little
man shook his head negatively the
least bit. But as he gave no indication of
curiosity Ossipon ventured to add that he had
heard it just outside the place. A newspaper boy
had yelled the thing under his very nose, and not
being prepared for anything of that sort, he was
very much startled and upset. He had to come in
there with a dry mouth. "I never thought of
finding you here," he added, murmuring steadily,
with his elbows planted on the table.

"I come
here sometimes," said the other, preserving his
provoking coolness of demeanour.

"It's
wonderful
that you of all people should have heard
nothing of it," the big Ossipon continued. His
eyelids snapped nervously upon the shining eyes.
"You of all people," he repeated, tentatively.
This obvious restraint argued an incredible and
inexplicable timidity of the big fellow before the
calm little man, who again lifted the glass mug,
drank, and put it down with brusque and assured
movements. And that was all. Ossipon, after
waiting for something, word or sign, that did not
come, made an effort to assume a sort of
indifference.

"Do you,"
he said, deadening
his voice still more, "give your stuff to anybody
who's up to asking you for it?"

"My absolute
rule is never to refuse anybody--as long as I
have a pinch by me," answered the little man with
decision.

"But they
could send someone--rig a plant on you. Don't
you see? Get the stuff from you in that way, and
then arrest you with the proof in their hands."

"Proof of
what? Dealing in explosives without
a licence perhaps." This was meant for a
contemptuous jeer, though the expression of the
thin, sickly man remained unchanged, and the
utterance was negligent. "I don't think there's
one of them anxious to make that arrest. I don't
think they could get one of them to apply for a
warrant. I mean one of the best. Not one."

"Because they
know very
well I take care never to part with the last
handful of my wares. I've it always by me." He
touched the breast of his coat lightly. "In a
thick glass flask," he added.

"So I
have been
told," said Ossipon, with a shade of wonder in his
voice. "But I didn't know if--"

"They know,"
interrupted the little man, crisply, leaning
against the straight chair back, which rose higher
than his fragile head. "I shall never be
arrested. The game isn't good enough for any
policeman of them all. To deal with a man like me
you require sheer, naked, inglorious heroism."

Again his
lips closed with a self-confident snap.
Ossipon repressed a movement of impatience.

"Or recklessness--or
simply ignorance," he
retorted. "They've only to get somebody for the
job who does not know you carry enough stuff in
your pocket to blow yourself and everything within
sixty yards of you to pieces."

"I never
affirmed I could not be eliminated," rejoined the
other. "But that wouldn't be an arrest.
Moreover, it's not so easy as it looks."

"Bah!" Ossipon
contradicted. "Don't be too sure
of that. What's to prevent half a dozen of them
jumping upon you from behind in the street? With
your arms pinned to your sides you could do
nothing--could you?"

"Yes; I
could. I am
seldom out in the streets after dark," said the
little man, impassively, "and never very late. I
walk always with my right hand closed round the
indiarubber ball which I have in my trouser
pocket. The pressing of this ball actuates a
detonator inside the flask I carry in my pocket.
It's the principle of the pneumatic instantaneous
shutter for a camera lens. The tube leads up--"

With a
swift, disclosing gesture he gave
Ossipon a glimpse of an indiarubber tube,
resembling a slender brown worm, issuing from the
armhole of his waistcoat and plunging into the
inner breast pocket of his jacket. His clothes,
of a nondescript brown mixture, were threadbare
and marked with stains, dusty in the folds, with
ragged button-holes. "The detonator is partly
mechanical, partly chemical," he explained, with
casual condescension.

"It is
instantaneous,
of course?" murmured Ossipon, with a slight
shudder.

"Far from
it," confessed the other,
with a reluctance which seemed to twist his mouth
dolorously. "A full twenty seconds must elapse
from the moment I press the ball till the
explosion takes place."

"Phew!" whistled
Ossipon, completely appalled. "Twenty seconds!
Horrors! You mean to say that you could face
that? I should go crazy--"

"Wouldn't matter
if you did. Of course, it's the weak point of
this special system, which is only for my own use.
The worst is that the manner of exploding is
always the weak point with us. I am trying to
invent a detonator that would adjust itself to all
conditions of action, and even to unexpected
changes of conditions. A variable and yet
perfectly precise mechanism. A really intelligent
detonator."

With a
slight turn
of the head the glitter of the spectacles seemed
to gauge the size of the beer saloon in the
basement of the renowned Silenus Restaurant.

"Nobody in
this room could hope to escape," was
the verdict of that survey. "Nor yet this couple
going up the stairs now."

The piano
at the
foot of the staircase clanged through a mazurka
with brazen impetuosity, as though a vulgar and
impudent ghost were showing off. The keys sank
and rose mysteriously. Then all became still.
For a moment Ossipon imagined the over-lighted
place changed into a dreadful black hole belching
horrible fumes, choked with ghastly rubbish of
smashed brickwork and mutilated corpses. He had
such a distinct perception of ruin and death that
he shuddered again. The other observed, with an
air of calm sufficiency:

"In the
last instance
it is character alone that makes for one's safety.
There are very few people in the world whose
character is as well established as mine."

"Force of
personality," said the other, without
raising his voice; and coming from the mouth of
that obviously miserable organism the assertion
caused the robust Ossipon to bite his lower lip.
"Force of personality," he repeated, with
ostentatious calm.

"I have
the means to make
myself deadly, but that by itself, you understand,
is absolutely nothing in the way of protection.
What is effective is the belief those people have
in my will to use the means. That's their
impression. It is absolute. Therefore I am
deadly."

"There are
individuals of character
amongst that lot, too," muttered Ossipon
ominously.

"Possibly. But
it is a matter of
degree obviously, since, for instance, I am not
impressed by them. Therefore they are inferior.
They cannot be otherwise. Their character is
built upon conventional morality. It leans on the
social order. Mine stands free from everything
artificial. They are bound in all sorts of
conventions. They depend on life, which, in this
connection, is a historical fact surrounded by all
sorts of restraints and considerations, a complex,
organized fact open to attack at every point;
whereas I depend on death, which knows no
restraint and cannot be attacked. My superiority
is evident."

"This is
a transcendental way of
putting it," said Ossipon, watching the cold
glitter of the round spectacles. "I've heard Karl
Yundt say much the same thing not very long ago."

"Karl Yundt,"
mumbled the other,
contemptuously, "the delegate of the International
Red Committee, has been a posturing shadow all his
life. There are three of you delegates, aren't
there? I won't define the other two, as you are
one of them. But what you say means nothing. You
are the worthy delegates for revolutionary
propaganda, but the trouble is not only that you
are as unable to think independently as any
respectable grocer or journalist of them all, but
that you have no character whatever."

"But what
do you want from us?" he exclaimed in a
deadened voice. "What is it you are after
yourself?"

"A perfect
detonator," was the
peremptory answer. "What are you making that face
for? You see, you can't even bear the mention of
something conclusive."

"I am
not making a
face," growled the annoyed Ossipon bearishly.
"You revolutionists," the other continued, with
leisurely self-confidence, "are the slaves of the
social convention, which is afraid of you; slaves
of it as much as the very police that stand up in
the defence of that convention. Clearly you are,
since you want to revolutionize it. It governs
your thought, of course, and your action, too, and
thus neither your thought nor your action can ever
be conclusive." He paused, tranquil, with that air
of close, endless silence, then almost immediately
went on: "You are not a bit better than the forces
arrayed against you--than the police, for
instance. The other day I came suddenly upon
Chief Inspector Heat at the corner of Tottenham
Court Road. He looked at me very steadily. But I
did not look at him. Why should I give him more
than a glance? He was thinking of many
things--of his superiors, of his reputation, of the law
courts, of his salary, of newspapers--of a
hundred things. But I was thinking of my perfect
detonator only. He meant nothing to me. He was
as insignificant as--I can't call to mind
anything insignificant enough to compare him
with--except Karl Yundt perhaps. Like to like. The
terrorist and the policeman both come from the
same basket. Revolution, legality--counter moves
in the same game; forms of idleness at bottom
identical. He plays his little game--so do you
propagandists. But I don't play; I work fourteen
hours a day, and go hungry sometimes. My
experiments cost money now and again, and then I
must do without food for a day or two. You're
looking at my beer. Yes. I have had two glasses
already, and shall have another presently. This
is a little holiday, and I celebrate it alone.
Why not? I've the grit to work alone, quite
alone, absolutely alone. I've worked alone for
years."

"Yes," retorted
the other. "It is
a good definition. You couldn't find anything
half so precise to define the nature of your
activity with all your committees and delegations.
It is I who am the true propagandist."

"We
won't
discuss that point," said Ossipon, with an
air of rising above personal considerations. "I
am afraid I'll have to spoil your holiday for you,
though. There's a man blown up in Greenwich Park
this morning."

"They
have
been yelling the news in the streets since
two o'clock. I bought the paper, and just ran in
here. Then I saw you sitting at this table. I've
got it in my pocket now."

He pulled
the
newspaper out. It was a good-sized, rosy sheet,
as if flushed by the warmth of its own convictions
which were optimistic. He scanned the pages
rapidly.

"Ah! Here
it is. Bomb in Greenwich
Park. There isn't much so far. Half past eleven.
Foggy morning. Effects of explosion felt as far
as Romney Road and Park Place. Enormous hole in
the ground under a tree filled with smashed roots
and broken branches. All round fragments of a
man's body blown to pieces. That's all. The
rest's mere newspaper gup. No doubt a wicked
attempt to blow up the Observatory, they say.
H'm. That's hardly credible."

He looked
at
the paper for a while longer in silence then
passed it to the other, who, after gazing
abstractedly at the print, laid it down without
comment.

"The fragments
of only
one man, you note. Ergo: blew
himself up. That spoils your day off for
you--don't it? Were you expecting that sort of
move? I hadn't the slightest idea--not the ghost
of a notion of anything of the sort being planned
to come off here--in this country. Under the
present circumstances it's nothing short of
criminal."

"Criminal! What
is that? What is crime? What
can be the meaning of such an assertion?"

"How
am
I to express myself? One must use the current
words," said Ossipon, impatiently. "The meaning
of this assertion is that this business may affect
our position very adversely in this country.
Isn't that crime enough for you? I am convinced
you have been giving away some of your stuff
lately."

Ossipon stared
hard. The other,
without flinching, lowered and raised his head
slowly.

"You have!"
burst out the editor of
the F.P. leaflets in an intense whisper. "No!
And are you really handing it over at large like
this, for the asking, to the first fool that comes
along?"

"Just so!
The condemned social order
has not been built up on paper and ink, and I
don't fancy that a combination of paper and ink
will ever put an end to it, whatever you may
think. Yes, I would give the stuff with both
hands to every man, woman, or fool that likes to
come along. I know what you are thinking about.
But I am not taking my cue from the Red Committee.
I would see you all hounded out of here, or
arrested--or beheaded for that matter--without
turning a hair. What happens to us as individuals
is not of the least consequence."

He spoke
carelessly, without heat, almost without feeling,
and Ossipon, secretly much affected, tried to copy
this detachment.

"If the
police here knew
their business they would shoot you full of holes
with revolvers, or else try to sand-bag you from
behind in broad daylight."

The little
man
seemed already to have considered that point of
view in his dispassionate, self-confident manner.

"Yes," he
assented with the utmost readiness.
"But for that they would have to face their own
institutions. Do you see? That requires uncommon
grit. Grit of a special kind."

"I fancy
that's exactly what would
happen to you if you were to set up your
laboratory in the States. They don't stand on
ceremony with their institutions there."

"I am
not likely to go and see. Otherwise your remark
is just, admitted the other. "They have more
character over there, and their character is
essentially anarchistic. Fertile ground for us,
the States--very good ground. The great Republic
has the root of the destructive matter in her.
The collective temperament is lawless. Excellent.
They may shoot us down, but--"

"Logical," protested
the
other. "There are several kinds of logic. This
is the enlightened kind. America is all right.
It is this country that is dangerous, with her
idealistic conception of legality. The social
spirit of this people is wrapped up in scrupulous
prejudices, and that is fatal to our work. You
talk of England being our only refuge! So much
the worse. Capua! What do we want with refuges?
Here you talk, print, plot, and do nothing. I
daresay it's very convenient for such Karl
Yundts."

He shrugged
his shoulders slightly,
then added with the same leisurely assurance: "To
break up the superstition and worship of legality
should be our aim. Nothing would please me more
than to see Inspector Heat and his likes take to
shooting us down in broad daylight with the
approval of the public. Half our battle would be
won then: the disintegration of the old morality
would have set in in its very temple. That is
what you ought to aim at. But you revolutionists
will never understand that. You plan the future,
you lose yourselves in reveries of economical
systems derived from what is; whereas what's
wanted is a clean sweep and a clear start for a
new conception of life. That sort of future will
take care of itself if you will only make room for
it. Therefore I would shovel my stuff in heaps at
the corners of the streets if I had enough for
that; and as I haven't, I do my best by perfecting
a really dependable detonator."

Ossipon, who
had been mentally swimming in deep waters, seized
upon the last word as it it were a saving plank.

"Yes. Your
detonators. I shouldn't wonder if
it weren't one of your detonators that made a
clean sweep of the man in the park."

"Yes. He's
the person. You can't say
that in this case I was giving my stuff to the
first fool that came along. He was a prominent
member of the group as far as I understand."

"Yes," said
Ossipon. "Prominent. No, not
exactly. He was the centre for general
intelligence, and usually received comrades coming
over here. More useful than important. Man of no
ideas. Years ago he used to speak at
meetings--in France, I believe. Not very well, though. He
was trusted by such men as Latorre, Moser, and all
that old lot. The only talent he showed really
was his ability to elude the attentions of the
police somehow. Here, for instance, he did not
seem to be looked after very closely. He was
regularly married, you know. I suppose it's with
her money that he started that shop. Seemed to
make it pay, too."

Ossipon paused
abruptly,
muttered to himself "I wonder what that woman will
do now?" and fell into thought.

The other
waited with ostentatious indifference. His
parentage was obscure, and he was generally known
only by his nickname of Professor. His title to
that designation consisted in his having been once
assistant demonstrator in chemistry at some
technical institute. He quarrelled with the
authorities upon a question of unfair treatment.
Afterwards he obtained a post in the laboratory of
a manufactory of dyes. There, too, he had been
treated with revolting injustice. His struggles,
his privations, his hard work to raise himself in
the social scale, had filled him with such an
exalted conviction of his merits that it was
extremely difficult for the world to treat him
with justice--the standard of that notion
depending so much upon the patience of the
individual. The Professor had genius, but lacked
the great social virtue of resignation.

"Intellectually a
nonentity," Ossipon pronounced
aloud, abandoning suddenly the inward
contemplation of Mrs Verloc's bereaved person and
business. "Quite an ordinary personality. You
are wrong in not keeping more in touch with the
comrades, Professor," he added in a reproving
tone. "Did he say anything to you--give you some
idea of his intentions? I hadn't seen him for a
month. It seems impossible that he should be
gone."

"He told
me it was going to be a
demonstration against a building," said the
Professor. "I had to know that much to prepare
the missile. I pointed out to him that I had
hardly a sufficient quantity for a completely
destructive result, but he pressed me very
earnestly to do my best. As he wanted something
that could be carried openly in the hand, I
proposed to make use of an old one-gallon copal
varnish can I happened to have by me. He was
pleased at the idea. It gave me some trouble,
because I had to cut out the bottom first and
solder it on again afterwards. When prepared for
use, the can enclosed a wide-mouthed, well-corked
jar of thick glass packed around with some wet
clay and containing sixteen ounces of X2 green
powder. The detonator was connected with the
screw top of the can. It was ingenious--a
combination of time and shock. I explained the
system to him. It was a thin tube of tin
enclosing--"

Ossipon's attention
had wandered.
"What do you think has happened?" he interrupted.

"Can't tell.
Screwed the top on tight, which
would make the connection, and then forgot the
time. It was set for twenty minutes. On the
other hand, the time contact being made, a sharp
shock would bring about the explosion at once. He
either ran the time too close, or simply let the
thing fall. The contact was made all
right--that's clear to me at any rate. The system's
worked perfectly. And yet you would think that a
common fool in a hurry would be much more likely
to forget to make the contact altogether. I was
worrying myself about that sort of failure mostly.
But there are more kinds of fools than one can
guard against. You can't expect a detonator to be
absolutely foolproof."

He beckoned
to a
waiter. Ossipon sat rigid, with the abstracted
gaze of mental travail. After the man had gone
away with the money he roused himself, with an air
of profound dissatisfaction.

"It's extremely
unpleasant for me," he mused. "Karl has been in
bed with bronchitis for a week. There's an even
chance that he will never get up again. Michaelis
is luxuriating in the country somewhere. A
fashionable publisher has offered him five hundred
pounds for a book. It will be a ghastly failure.
He has lost the habit of consecutive thinking in
prison, you know."

The Professor
on his feet,
now buttoning his coat, looked about him with
perfect indifference.

"What are
you going to
do?" asked Ossipon, wearily. He dreaded the blame
of the Central Red Committee, a body which had no
permanent place of abode, and of whose membership
he was not exactly informed. If this affair
eventuated in the stoppage of the modest subsidy
allotted to the publication of the F.P. pamphlets,
then indeed he would have to regret Verloc's
inexplicable folly.

"Solidarity with
the
extremest form of action is one thing, and silly
recklessness is another," he said, with a sort of
moody brutality. "I don't know what came to
Verloc. There's some mystery there. However,
he's gone. You may take it as you like, but under
the circumstances the only policy for the militant
revolutionary group is to disclaim all connection
with this damned freak of yours. How to make the
disclaimer convincing enough is what bothers me."

The little
man on his feet, buttoned up and
ready to go, was no taller than the seated
Ossipon. He levelled his spectacles at the
latter's face point-blank.

"You might
ask the
police for a testimonial of good conduct. They
know where every one of you slept last night.
Perhaps if you asked them they would consent to
publish some sort of official statement."

"No
doubt
they are aware well enough that we had
nothing to do with this," mumbled Ossipon,
bitterly. "What they will say is another thing."
He remained thoughtful, disregarding the short,
owlish, shabby figure standing by his side. "I
must lay hands on Michaelis at once, and get him
to speak from his heart at one of our gatherings.
The public has a sort of sentimental regard for
that fellow. His name is known. And I am in
touch with a few reporters on the big dailies.
What he would say would be utter bosh, but he has
a turn of talk that makes it go down all the
same."

The perplexed
Ossipon went on
communing with himself half audibly, after the
manner of a man reflecting in perfect solitude.

"Confounded ass!
To leave such an imbecile
business on my hands. And I don't even know if--"

He sat
with compressed lips. The idea of
going for news straight to the shop lacked charm.
His notion was that Verloc's shop might have been
turned already into a police trap. They will be
bound to make some arrests, he thought, with
something resembling virtuous indignation, for the
even tenor of his revolutionary life was menaced
by no fault of his. And yet unless he went there
he ran the risk of remaining in ignorance of what
perhaps it would be very material for him to know.
Then he reflected that, if the man in the park had
been so very much blown to pieces as the evening
papers said, he could not have been identified.
And if so, the police could have no special reason
for watching Verloc's shop more closely than any
other place known to be frequented by marked
anarchists--no more reason, in fact, than for
watching the doors of the Silenus. There would be
a lot of watching all round, no matter where he
went. Still--

"I wonder
what I had better do
now?" he muttered, taking counsel with himself.

A rasping
voice at his elbow said, with sedate
scorn: "Fasten yourself upon the woman for all
she's worth."

After uttering
these words the
Professor walked away from the table. Ossipon,
whom that piece of insight had taken unawares,
gave one ineffectual start, and remained still,
with a helpless gaze, as though nailed fast to the
seat of his chair. The lonely piano, without as
much as a music stool to help it, struck a few
chords courageously, and beginning a selection of
national airs, played him out at last to the tune
of "The Blue Bells of Scotland". The painfully
detached notes grew faint behind his back while he
went slowly upstairs, across the hall, and into
the street.

In front
of the great doorway a
dismal row of newspaper sellers standing clear of
the pavement dealt with their wares from the
gutter. It was a raw, gloomy day of the early
spring; and the grimy sky, the mud of the street,
the rags of the dirty men harmonized excellently
with the eruption of the damp, rubbishy sheets of
paper soiled with printers' ink. The posters,
maculated with filth, garnished like tapestry the
sweep of the kerbstone. The trade in afternoon
papers was brisk, yet, in comparison with the
swift, constant march of foot traffic, the effect
was of indifference, of a disregarded
distribution. Ossipon looked hurriedly both ways
before stepping out into the cross-currents, but
the Professor was already out of sight.